Maybe it has to do with the fighter jets that keep thundering over my office every five minutes, so fast I can only glimpse their silver bodies banking and fading. They look like two-seater roadsters with dorsal fins. Their throaty growls pitch and wane as they throw their tail pipes around before rumbling away like a summer storm.
Five minutes is almost enough time to forget, but then there's another one, or maybe two. This has been going on for an hour. The sky is clear of the usual orderly jet traffic in and out of National.
I have no idea what is going on. There is nothing on the news. CNN, the Times, and the Post are still headlining yesterday's horrible stories: of a Yankee pitcher who flew his plane into a building; a report of unimaginable numbers of Iraqi civilian deaths; of the Amish tearing down a schoolhouse.
Maybe it has to do with the gorgeous autumn day, the distant fire alarms, the memory of smoke from the burning Pentagon.
I must get back to work.